


Conversations with Mycroft

by theleftglove



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 21:15:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1526015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theleftglove/pseuds/theleftglove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exactly what it says on the tin: Sherlock and John have short one-on-one conversations with Mycroft. Mostly about each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conversations with Mycroft

Sherlock came home from Mary and John's wedding to a straightened knocker on the door to 221B Baker Street. He briefly considered turning right around and getting lost amongst London’s shoddiest alleyways, but he found himself too exhausted to try and circumvent Mycroft’s surveillance. Additionally, he was all too aware of the danger venturing into such settings would pose; too many illegal substances easily within his reach, he knew. For all of his brother’s patronizing, he was, obviously, far from stupid.

Sherlock climbed the stairs to his flat with a nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach. He knew what Mycroft was going to say. The words had been pounding in his head all day, over and over again, a madman’s mantra: _don’t get involved_.

Sod it. He’d been involved since the first time he laid eyes on John Watson.

Mycroft waited atop the stairs, ankles crossed, umbrella in hand. Sherlock regarded his brother, perfectly composed, but unable to hide the smugness of his expression. There was no need for their exchange to be worded: _I did warn you, little brother. Piss off, Mycroft._

He said it out loud for good measure, “Piss off, Mycroft.” Sherlock brushed past his brother and stormed into 221B without looking at him. The flat had been a flutter of activity for the past couple of weeks, Mary having been clever enough to suggest that the wedding organizing was sorted there; Sherlock knew why she’d done it, but rather than despise her sympathy, he was silently grateful for it. At least he’d been able to douse in John’s presence. Now, however, the flat felt unbearably cold, having undeniably lost the warmth of one John Watson. It was like being suddenly engulfed by shadow after having basked in sunlight for hours. Despite being wrapped in his coat and scarf, Sherlock felt the hair on his arms stand up and hated himself for it. He sat on his chair, knees drawn up to his chest, and glared at his brother.

“What are you still doing here?” Sherlock asked, irritated beyond measure. Mycroft crossed the threshold with light, guarded steps and sat down on John’s armchair without speaking. He crossed his legs and fiddled with the ring on his right hand, turning it over slowly.

“I came to make sure you wouldn’t do anything…reckless,” he replied and regarded Sherlock from under pale eyelashes. When Mycroft looked at him that way, Sherlock always felt as though he was being X-rayed; he wondered absently if people felt that way too when he observed them and the thought made him uncomfortable.

“Well, I’m perfectly alright, as you can see. Feel free to go away now.” Sherlock stood up and paced restlessly around the sitting room before coming to a halt in front of the window. It had begun to drizzle, rain drops bouncing on the pavement making splashes as though mimicking a dance routine. Sherlock wished he could walk under the rain until he was completely diluted by it, until he felt himself become undone by his own footsteps, dissolved into fog.

“I told you once that caring was not an advantage, but I was never worried it would be your undoing. I am now,” Mycroft stated. Sherlock willed himself not to look at him. He could picture his condescending expression all too well, he didn’t need to see it.

“I hardly need you to worry about me, Mycroft, I’m not a child."

Mycroft sighed. “Perhaps. But I am family, and as such, much as it pains you, I rather consider it my duty to protect you to the best of my abilities. I quite regret having failed where John Watson was concerned,” he said.

Sherlock turned on the spot and frowned at his brother. “John would never hurt me.”

“Wouldn’t he,” Mycroft muttered thoughtfully. It wasn’t a question.

“What _exactly_ is it that you want, Mycroft?”

“I’ve told you. I merely wish to make sure you won’t feel pressed to do anything… _unwise_ under your current state of mind.”

“Which is what, according to you?”

“You’re clearly upset, dear brother, don’t bother denying it. It is plain as the nose on your—”

“I _told_ you, I’m fine, I don’t need you to babysit me,” Sherlock interrupted, dismissing him with a wave of his hand. “Besides,” he continued, “things between John and I are perfectly fine. Nothing will change, he said so himself.”

“Do allow me to ask you something. What do you suppose happens next? I am aware of your fanciful imagination, but I can’t believe even you would be so deluded as to think John Watson will continue to bounce around you, to follow you on your little adventures, even as he has a _wife_ and a life of his own waiting for him back where you can’t reach him. Those days are over, Sherlock, and the sooner you come to terms with it, the better for us all.”

Sherlock stood silently with his back to his brother, hands turned into fists, fingernails painfully digging into his palms. He wanted to shout at him, to kick him out of his flat, to claw at his perfectly pressed jacket and rip the buttons off his waistcoat. Because Mycroft did not know. He did not know what it was like to live in a flat haunted by the ghost of John’s voice; he had no idea of the echoes that constantly reverberated on the walls, growing larger and larger until they drowned out every other noise, every other thought completely. Mycroft Holmes had never lain awake at night hating himself for being so cowardly, for not daring to reach out and grab the life that should have been his, unlived memories dancing before his eyes, taunting him, mocking him. _You could have had this_ , they whispered, and his mind, once a haven, felt like the very worst kind of prison.

Sherlock turned to face his brother, and his eyes burned, white rage emanating from his every pore. He spoke through gritted teeth. “You’ve made your point. Now leave before I kick you out.”

“Very well,” Mycroft replied, but he made no move to go; instead, he regarded Sherlock for a long moment. The silence between them grew thick and tense, like a taut wire waiting to snap. Sherlock blinked back tears of anger, and he felt his lower lip quiver. _Idiot, you idiot._

“Sherlock,” His brother said, and his voice was so gentle, if Sherlock hadn’t seen his lips move, he might have thought he was hallucinating. Mycroft walked towards him hesitantly, his shoulders slumped forwards ever so slightly, his expression no longer smug, but something close to kind. Sherlock was too stunned to remember being angry, and so he stared silently as his brother’s hand hovered over his shoulder, never meeting it. He suddenly felt very tired.

After hesitating briefly, Mycroft pulled his hand away, his face guarded once more, every trace of emotion wiped away from it, and he looked down at his brother one last time before turning for the door. He stood on the threshold for a moment, his back to Sherlock.

“Perhaps you should consider keeping your distance from John Watson, at least for a while. Time heals all wounds, little brother. Even memories,” Mycroft declared, and he left without another word.

Sherlock stared at the empty doorframe for what felt like hours. When he finally moved, his limbs felt stiff and awkward. He crossed the sitting room in two long strides and came to stand in front of John’s chair. He ran his hands across the arm rests and closed his eyes, breathing in its scent, feeling every bump under the soft fabric. He thought of John sitting on it fresh out of the shower, hair still dripping, legs peeking tentantively under his gown; he thought of John drinking tea on it, reading the paper, or listening intently as a client went on about inconsequential business; he thought of the chair staring back at him, empty, for all the days to come, a constant reminder of what he’d lost, eloquently speaking of what could have been.

Sherlock had moved the chair into John’s unused bedroom before he’d quite realised what he was doing. He locked the door and didn’t look back.


End file.
